


Just Close Your Eyes, Dear

by eyesofshinigami



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hopeful Ending, I guess that's how you'd describe it, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Not between Geralt and Jaskier, Pre-Relationship, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking, Violence, not graphic, then into relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27511198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesofshinigami/pseuds/eyesofshinigami
Summary: One of Jaskier's many fans is a little bit too touchy, too insistent for Geralt's liking. He keeps an eye on it, but he can't be everywhere all the time.It gets worse before it gets better.Or, where Jaskier breaks, but Geralt helps put him back together again
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 36
Kudos: 311





	Just Close Your Eyes, Dear

**Author's Note:**

> Whew boy, okay. So, this is not my typical fare, but I was listening to Evans Blue's [version](https://youtu.be/Uoi89Eg8dfY) of Possession by Sarah McLachlan, and this idea took hold of my brain and didn't let me go. I was a bit wary about sharing this, as I'm not usually an angst writer. 
> 
> Many many thanks to the encouragement from the Bards of Geraskier server, and to InkAtHeart for her beta and her letting me bounce this idea of her when it ate my brain.

The first time Geralt sees him is at a bardic competition in Oxenfurt. Jaskier had begged and begged for him to come and watch him play, and Geralt finally caved. So, now he’s here, standing at the edge of the crowd, away from the stench of too-close bodies pressed together in the midsummer heat. That’s probably why he notices the man in the first place.

He’s used to Jaskier’s many admirers. He’s seen the way men and women alike fawn over him as he performs, but this is different. The man has a strange energy about him, the look on his face as he stares at Jaskier is almost covetous, hungry. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. As much as he wants to try and commit the man’s face to memory, there’s nothing extraordinary or even noteworthy about him. Still, for the rest of Jaskier’s set, Geralt finds himself glancing back and forth between the stage and the man that has barely moved since Jaskier began to sing.

Hmm. 

When Jaskier’s set is finished, he watches as the man moves for the first time, like whatever spell has been cast over him is broken. He’s heading towards the stage and Geralt takes the opportunity to trail behind him, careful to keep his distance and not draw attention to himself. He hangs back, hands folded and body coiled should the need arise, but for now he just watches. 

Jaskier is coming down the stairs, lute slung over his shoulder when the man speaks. “Master Jaskier! Your performance was divine, as always! What a treat to finally get to see you perform at the competition!” he praises, clasping his hands together. “My name is Octavius, and I’ve been following your career for some time now!” 

“Oh, well, thank you! It’s not as illustrious as some, I imagine, but it’s lovely to hear that someone appreciates my music,” Jaskier replies graciously. Geralt notices a crease in the bard’s brow that only someone who knew him well would notice. “Octavius, you said? Are you a student at the university?” 

The man, Octavius, shakes his head. “No, but I travel quite frequently and I hear your songs played in taverns across the land! Your wordcraft is unparalleled and listening to you play your lute is heavenly.” 

Geralt watches Jaskier shift. Normally, Jaskier basks in the praise that people heap upon him and soaks it up like a dry bed in a rainstorm, but he must have caught the same strange energy. He takes a step back and the crease between his brow deepens. “Oh, I think you exaggerate, my good sir. I am but a humble bard who travels with his witcher, who so graciously shares his adventures with me and allows me to weave fantastic tails from his exploits.” 

If Geralt weren’t so on edge, he’d probably roll his eyes. 

Octavius frowns at that, taking a step closer towards Jaskier. “It doesn’t sound like he appreciates your genius very much, Master Jaskier. If I might-”  


That’s when Geralt decides to step out of the shadows, watching the naked relief on Jaskier’s face before he covers it with a smile. “Ah, Geralt! There you are, I was just talking about you, my friend!” 

“I knew I felt my ears burning,” Geralt says flatly, getting a better look at the man now that he’s in front of him. He takes in the wringing hands, the frown on his face, the way his green eyes seem to glow with a fervor that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. “Do you need to stay for the results, or can we head back to the inn?” It’s said pointedly and in a way that he wouldn’t usually, but he wants this man to take the hint that he’s not welcome anymore. 

“They won’t announce the results until tomorrow, so I think we’re good to leave. It was wonderful to meet you, Octavius, but I’m quite tired from my set,” Jaskier says smoothly, wiping his brow and standing closer to Geralt. 

He doesn’t miss the way Octavius’ eyes scan the distance between them, his frown deepening. “Of course, Master Jaskier. I’m just honored to have met you and gotten to see you perform. I look forward to the next one.” 

Geralt ushers Jaskier towards the back of the stage, but even he can feel the way the other man’s eyes burn into the back of his neck. He keeps his hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, even once they’re out of sight. It takes a decent amount of willpower for Geralt to not look behind him to see if the man is following. 

“Does that happen often?” he asks once they’re well out of earshot of the crowd. 

Jaskier smooths down the front of his doublet and fiddles with his hair, and Geralt can smell the slightly sour scent of nerves drifting off of him. “He certainly seemed like a rather ardent fan, didn’t he? I can’t say I’ve run into many of those, considering the company I tend to keep,” he trails off and tugs at his lip. “The whole thing seemed a bit much to you too?” 

Geralt nods as he steers them down a side street. It’s a less direct route and will take them longer, but his instincts tell him that it’s the right call. He would rather be overly cautious than not enough. “Mmm,” he hums in agreement. “I noticed him in the crowd during your set. Didn’t like the way he looked at you.” 

“You never like the way people look at me, darling. But I’ll concede to you on that front. Well, here’s hoping that we never see him again? After all, the Continent is a vast place, isn’t it? And once I receive my prize for winning the competition, we can go see about that contract in Maribor, hmm? I saw the notice in your pack. Do you think-” 

Geralt lets the sound of Jaskier’s chatter wash over him, nodding and interjecting with his standard “hmm” as the bard continues on. The familiar noise settles something in him and he puts the strange human out of his mind as they make their way to the inn. 

-*-

The second time they meet Octavius, Geralt feels like he could have been knocked over with a chicken feather. They’re in a small tavern in White Orchard, Jaskier haggling with the innkeep while Geralt gets some details from one of the patrons about a contract. There’s rumors of alghouls in some of the fields, possibly drawn by the sickness that has ravaged most of the livestock in the area. He’s about to start discussing payment when he hears, “Master Jaskier! What a surprise to see you here!” from over the din of the tavern. 

That voice. Geralt is sure he would never hear that voice again, but there it is. He vaguely remembers Octavius saying something about traveling, but Geralt has lived a long time and knows that coincidences are rarely just that. The client he’s speaking with notices the way Geralt freezes up and glances around, but the Witcher’s attention is on the man standing incredibly close to Jaskier. It raises his hackles. “Everything all right, Master Witcher?” 

“Sure. If you wouldn’t mind, would you tell me where the attacks have been taking place? I’d like to get moving on this hunt.”

The patron continues talking, but Geralt is only listening with one ear. He’s doing his best to keep Jaskier and Octavius within his sights, and what he sees is not helping the situation any. The man is leaned in _very_ close and seems to be trying to cage Jaskier up against the bar with his presence. His bard looks uncomfortable but is clearly trying to be polite while also inching away. 

He finishes up and takes a lower price for the contract in favor of getting away quicker, then stalks over to the bar. 

“Ah, Geralt. You remember Octavius from the competition a few months ago? He’s apparently here in White Orchard on business, imagine that?” Jaskier says cheerfully, but Geralt can see the hunted look in his eyes. He’s not sure what it is about the man that sets them both so on edge, but Geralt doesn’t like it at all. “Did you get our contract hashed out, then?” 

Geralt nods, but his eyes don’t leave Octavius. Again, he’s struck by the look of utter disdain the man gives him. It’s nothing new, humans looking at him with sneering glares and frowning faces, but this is something else entirely. Octavius looks at him like if he wished he could make Geralt disappear by wishing it hard enough. “Are you performing tonight?” he asks, finally looking to Jaskier. 

The bard is paler than usual, and the lines around his eyes are more pronounced, like he’s holding back a grimace. “I was, yes. Would you-” he starts, but he’s cut off.

“Oh, I was hoping you would be! What a treat it will be, to hear you perform so intimately, in your favored setting. You were brilliant at the competition, of course, but I know that this is your element. I am so delighted I happened across you all the way out here,” Octavius gushes, leaning close again. 

His simpering is giving Geralt a headache and is clearly making Jaskier look like he wants to leap out of his skin. “Ah yes, well. I’m sure glad to hear that, good sir. Geralt, dear heart, I know you haven’t eaten yet, and I think you should put something into your belly before you go out on your hunt. I took the liberty of procuring some fine meat and potatoes, as well as some ale,” Jaskier says with a grand sweep of his arm, but Geralt can hear the plea underneath the torrent of words. _Don’t leave. Please stay. I need you here._

As much as Geralt _should_ go and start preparing for the hunt, there’s no way that he could leave Jaskier now. Not with Octavius staring at him like he’d devour him the first chance he got if there weren’t someone to keep him in line. “I could be persuaded.” 

“Of course, darling. Now, why don’t you eat up and I’ll go prepare for my set, alright?” Jaskier rushes off, but Geralt can’t really blame him. 

He watches Octavius make to step forward, but Geralt catches himself growling and baring his teeth. Normally he tries to keep a lid on his more base reactions so as not to scare the humans around him more than he already does, but this man makes him want to snarl and snap his jaws. 

The other man seems to recognize the threat for what it is, but he still looks at Geralt like he’s something rather unpleasant stuck to his shoe. “Disgraceful. How Master Jaskier stands traveling with _someone_ like you is beyond me. You don’t deserve to spend one moment in his presence.” Octavius spits at him, then skitters away to find a seat close to the stage. 

Big words for a man who refuses to give Geralt a chance to respond.

He walks over to a table towards the back of the tavern, up against a wall so that he can see the layout of the tavern perfectly. There aren’t many people, for which he’s thankful. Otherwise, he couldn’t watch Jaskier the way he wants to. As Jaskier flits about the stage, setting up and tuning his lute, he watches Octavius watching Jaskier. That same hungry look is on his face, giving way to a strange, rapturous look when the bard begins to sing. Octavius’ body sways to the music even as his eyes sweep over Jaskier, licking his lips and shifting against the bench. 

Even through the scent of unwashed bodies and spilled ale, he can smell the tang of arousal on the back of his tongue, and it makes him want to retch. Many people smell a little aroused when Jaskier plays, himself included if he wants to be completely honest, but it’s the expression Octavius wears that makes Geralt uneasy. So, here he sits, watching as he eats his dinner and drinks his ale. 

Jaskier’s about halfway through _Toss A Coin_ when a man comes stumbling into the tavern, yelling out, “There’s been another attack! Please, someone help!” The music stops abruptly and Geralt gets to his feet, pleased when Jaskier is close at his heels. 

“Master Jaskier! Surely you don’t need to follow the witcher on such a dangerous hunt! Why don’t you stay here and finish your set, and then we could-” Octavius starts to say, getting to his feet, but Jaskier’s already waving him off. 

“Sorry, must go! How else will I collect material for my songs? Another time, perhaps? Enjoy your evening!” he calls out, even as he presses himself close to Geralt’s back. Under his breath, where only Geralt can hear, he says, “Please, Geralt, I know you aren’t fond of me coming on hunts, but I beg of you, please.” 

Geralt grunts an affirmative and they head out to the stable to gather Roach. He hasn’t had a chance to untack her or pull down their bags for the evening, but just as well. He climbs on and then offers his hand out to Jaskier. “Come on, just this once.” The smile he gets in return is blinding and he feels something in him let go when Jaskier’s back is slouched against his chest. “I wasn’t going to leave you there.” 

“I didn’t think so, darling, but one can never be too cautious. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to secure a room, so it looks like we’ll be camping again tonight. I do apologize.”

They had both been looking forward to a bath and a real bed to sleep in, but Geralt supposes they could make it one more night. “We’ll just have to make up for it in the next town,” Geralt replies with a quirk of his eyebrow. The idea of putting some distance between Jaskier and Octavius eases some of the edge within him and the further they get away from White Orchard, the better. “Now, when I tell you to stay on Roach, I mean-”

“Yes, Geralt, oh worrywart Witcher mine. I will stay on the horse, as far away as possible,” Jaskier recites, and Geralt smiles just a bit, even though the bard can’t see it. “Honestly, it’s not like I _want_ to be alghoul bait. They smell horrible and look like something out of one of those strange horror novels you get in Vizima…” 

They start arguing over Geralt’s atrocious taste in reading materials and he feels the last little bit of tension unknot in his chest. He’ll slay the beasts, they’ll collect their due in the morning, and Geralt hopes this time they never see Octavius again. 

-*-

However, Destiny is not so kind to Witchers or their bards. 

The third time they see Octavius, Geralt isn’t even there when it happens, at least not at first. Jaskier had mentioned going on ahead to secure some supplies they were lacking, now that they were in a proper city with better selections than the tiny villages they frequent. Geralt takes the liberty to check the notice board, frowning when he picks up a contract for drowners in Velen. Jaskier is going to complain about yet another contract with what he calls ‘boring’ monsters, but a contract means coin, so Velen it is. 

The market in Novigrad is bustling, lively. It’s almost pleasant, if one can ignore the burning posts in the square and the sight of witch hunters walking around the city. He gives them a wide berth, and they him, settling into an unspoken truce. Geralt is contemplating contacting Triss to see how she’s getting along when he hears the commotion coming from a couple of stalls away.  
“I would kindly appreciate it if you would take a step back, sir. You are crowding me and I’m not a fan of people putting their hands on me when I have not invited them to!” 

Geralt would know that voice anywhere. Stuffing the notice into his pocket, he’s shoving through the crowd and not caring about the offended noises the townsfolk make as he pushes them aside. Whatever is going on is gathering a crowd, which makes his blood boil even more. What, are they all standing there watching, rather than helping out? Typical. 

As much as he hates it, he’s not at all surprised to see Octavius there, the cause of Jaskier’s obvious distress. This time, there’s no polite smile or pretending. The man has Jaskier crowded up against one of the stalls, and the air is a swirling mess of the dirt the bard is kicking up in his effort to get away. “But Master Jaskier, I heard you singing as you walked. You’re like a songbird, or a siren, calling to me from across the way. I could hear you singing to me. Your voice is like a beacon, a light in the darkness, a-”

That is enough of that. Geralt stalks forward and cuts off whatever he was going to say with a hard scruff of his neck. He lifts Octavius off of his feet and turns him around so that they are eye to eye. Furious green eyes meet his own and Geralt can see that same hungry gleam to them. “I think I heard Jaskier say to quit touching him, even from across the way,” he starts, leaning close to bare his teeth in a snarl. “Perhaps you need a lesson in what the word ‘no’ means?” 

There’s a rippling whisper through the crowd, but Geralt doesn’t care. Let them talk, say what they want. It’s not like any of _them_ decided to step in. The whispers must bolster Octavius, because he takes a comical swing at Geralt as he yells, “Unhand me, you disgusting brute! How dare you put your filthy hands on me! Is this how you treat my songbird?” He swings again and Geralt gives him a good shake to rattle him a bit. He doesn’t hurt humans as a rule unless he has to, but Octavius is making it very easy to forget that. 

“ _Yours_? Excuse me, I belong to no one, least of all someone like you! I don’t know how you keep ending up wherever we are, but you are no longer welcome!” Jaskier fixes his doublet and the apples of his cheeks are bright red. 

Octavius seems to forget that Geralt is holding him as he turns that unnerving stare back towards Jaskier. “Master Jaskier, songbird, surely you can’t mean that! It’s this mutant’s influence on you, isn’t it? I bet he’s been telling you all sorts of terrible things! Forcing you to travel with him when it’s beneath you.” He spits on the ground at Geralt’s feet. “Come with me, my songbird, I will take you away and give you everything you deserve. I have money, riches, I can provide you everything this _beast_ denies you.” 

Geralt can’t help but snort at that. If anything, that makes Jaskier even more incensed. “Don’t you dare. Geralt, please remove him from my vicinity, I can’t stand to hear this nonsense anymore.” He grabs his lute from where it had fallen to the ground and stands with his arms crossed. 

Geralt gives Octavius one last vicious shake and tosses him onto the ground. He draws his steel sword, making the crowd gasp around them, and he presses the tip of it against Octavius’ neck. “You will get up and you will walk away, you will stop following us and you will never put your hands on Jaskier. If I ever see you near _my_ bard again, I will not hesitate to run you through with this. Do I make myself clear?” He bares his teeth again and knicks the delicate skin of the man’s throat, just to drive his point home. Octavius glares up at him, eyes burning even as he nods, and Geralt sheathes the sword. “Good. Now, fuck off.” 

Octavius scrambles to his feet and spits at Geralt’s feet one last time before he rushes off, disappearing into the crowd that’s starting to dissipate now that the show’s over. Good. Geralt wants to snarl at them too, livid that they’d rather stand by and gawk than help Jaskier, but that’s a problem for another day. Right now, he’s more concerned with Jaskier’s well-being than anything else.

His bard holds his head high as they walk through the busy market, the only visible marker of how shaken up he feels is the fine tremor of his clenched fists. As soon as they are out of the stalls, Geralt pulls Jaskier into a side street and waits a beat before embracing him. Jaskier jolts, then starts to shake apart in his arms. “Melitele's tits, Geralt.” 

The touch is a bit awkward, neither of them used to Geralt being the one to initiate it, but the sour scent of fear is starting to fade and Geralt is grateful for it. “I know, I didn’t realize that a human could be this persistent. I didn’t anticipate him following us.” He grunts, angry with himself. He’s a fucking Witcher, how had he missed some plain mortal man tracking Jaskier like some kind of prey? 

A warm hand, still trembling finely, cups his jaw and Geralt’s drawn in to look down into familiar blue eyes. “None of that, darling. I’m not going to let you spiral into a tantrum because of something neither of us prepared for. I’m just glad he’s gone.” He shivers and Geralt feels it against his skin, doesn’t like the way it makes his own stomach squirm unpleasantly. “The way he looked at me, the things he said… I’ve had overtures like that from overzealous fans before, but this feels different.” 

Geralt lets out a hum, still annoyed with himself. He’ll have to keep a better watch over things as they travel. “He’s gone now, and he’ll stay gone if he knows what’s good for him.” He clenches his teeth and swallows down the growl that builds in his chest. 

Jaskier curls closer, splaying his hand against Geralt’s chest as the shaking slowly starts to subside. “Thank you, darling. I should have been able to fend him off on my own, but his eyes and his body so close… I froze up. But no matter. Now, I’m not particularly interested in shopping anymore today, so can we head back to the inn?” Jaskier gives him a watery smile and Geralt’s stomach clenches all over again. 

“Sure. And on the way, I can tell you about the contract in Velen I picked up.” 

Jaskier kisses the underside of his jaw, lightning quick, before he’s back on his own feet and rolling his eyes in dramatic outrage. “Ugh, not Velen. You know how much I hate trudging through that god-awful swamp land. And let me guess… drowners?” At Geralt’s nod, he throws his hands up in the air. “It’s always fucking drowners. Well, lead the way, I suppose.” 

They shuffle out of the alley and start heading towards the direction of the inn they were staying at. If Geralt stood closer to Jaskier than usual, that was no one’s business but their own. 

-*-

It takes a good month or so before Jaskier stops jumping at shadows, though he scoffs any time Geralt mentions it. Wisely, he lets it drop and things begin to go back to normal, or as normal as life is for the two of them. Contracts are filled and performances are had, and neither of them talk about how sometimes they look over their shoulder to make sure no one is dogging their steps. 

It still bothers Geralt, how he missed Octavius. He doesn’t believe in coincidence any more than he believes in Destiny, so he’s tried time and time again to figure out what he missed. He keeps it to himself because Jaskier doesn’t need to know that it’s eating at him that he was careless. A careless Witcher is a dead one, and he couldn’t stand the thought of his carelessness being the cause of Jaskier getting hurt. 

They’re in Lower Posada when Geralt notices the weather changing, the air starting to carry a chill that means it’s time to head towards the mountain. He starts to toy with the idea of taking Jaskier with him to Kaer Morhen, not wanting to leave his bard alone for the season. As much as he hopes his threat to Octavius will hold, he knows that humans are selfish, and arrogant, especially when overcome with whatever madness has taken hold of the man. So, no, Geralt doesn’t want to be separated for the winter. Once or twice, he goes to say it, but the words sit like ash on the back of his tongue and he can’t force them out. 

They stop in a shoddy little tavern with a leaky roof and a sticky floor. They’re sharing an ale when Geralt finally tries to breach the subject. “So, Jaskier, you haven’t told me what your plans are for the winter.” he begins awkwardly, fighting the urge to wince. 

Thankfully, Jaskier is well-versed in Geralt’s difficulty in starting a conversation and handles it with grace. “I hadn’t considered any, really. I guess it’s getting rather close to the time you start your journey to Kaedwen, isn’t it? Well, I guess I should start searching for a court to hole up in, shouldn’t I?” he says, but Geralt doesn’t miss the thready quality to his voice. Clearly Geralt wasn’t the only one to have been thinking about this. 

“Jaskier... Fuck. Look. How would you like to come to the keep with me?” he asks bluntly. 

Jaskier’s cup is halfway to his lips, but he nearly drops it when Geralt's words seem to register. “You would take me with you? To Kaer Morhen?” he repeats, his eyes going wide. There’s a smile creeping up on his face that’s one part sweet and one part manic, like he’s already getting ahead of himself with all the stories the winter will bring

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” Geralt grunts. Having Jaskier safe in the wolves’ den, surrounded by mountains and his brothers, makes him want to purr. The trip will be hard and treacherous, but he will make sure that his bard makes it hale and whole. 

Jaskier doesn’t even bother with his usual dramatics, leaning close and taking Geralt’s hand in his own. “I am truly honored, my friend. I know that the secrets of the Wolf school are important to you and yours, so whatever I find there will be for us and us alone.” He squeezes Geralt’s hand once, like he didn’t just promise to guard the secrets of the remaining Wolf witchers, and takes a sip of his ale. His nose wrinkles up and he takes another sip, sputtering after he swallows. “Yuck, I do believe their ale is spoiled, or something. Does ale spoil? Here, take a sniff,” he says as he hands the tankard to Geralt.

He does, and Jaskier isn't wrong. The ale smells off, but he can’t quite put his finger on what the smell is. He swirls a finger in it and dabs a bit on his tongue. It’s more bitter than it should be and it tastes just as off as it smells. His mind is already jumping to conclusions and he’s on his feet, scanning the meager crowd for a familiar, unwanted face. “Don’t drink any more of that, Jaskier,” he growls, dumping the ale out onto the floor and ignoring the outrage coming from the bar. He shuffles close and starts scenting under Jaskier’s jaw and along his skin, checking for traces of that bitter smell. It’s there, but it’s drowned out by the spicy scent of lust and the warm, fresh bread smell of something else. 

When he moves back, Jaskier’s face is an attractive shade of red and he’s tugging at his collar. “Geralt? Did you just… smell me?” he squeaks out.

Geralt takes another breath, trying to clear the fog of Jaskier’s lust from his senses. “To check to see if you were poisoned. I think someone slipped something into your drink.” 

That sobers Jaskier immediately. “Oh. Do you think--” he starts to ask, but cuts himself off as he bites his lip and shifts closer to Geralt on the bench. His gaze sweeps around the room and something sour curls in his usual scent of rosin and lavender, setting Geralt’s teeth on edge. “Should we leave?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “No, we have a contract here. But what we are going to do is that you’re going to go upstairs and you’re going to lock yourself in the room. I’m trailing a pair of griffins, and that’s not safe for you. So you’re going to stay in the room until I get back.” His words are curt, he knows, but the taste of Jaskier’s fear is thick on his tongue and it makes him ill. He waits for Jaskier’s usual bluster, over-dramatic protests about how he’s not some waifish maiden to be protected.

They don’t come. Jaskier sits beside him, stone-faced, until he nods and grabs his lute strap, tight enough that the leather squeaks a bit in his hand. “I think that would be best, actually. Gives me time to compose, doesn’t it? And there’s that lovely wine we got from your friend in Cintra,” he says faintly, getting to his feet. He glances around and keeps his body as close to Geralt’s as possible, as if he could meld the two of them together. 

Geralt grunts out a reply, crowding Jaskier up the stairs and into the room they’d rented for the night. It was one of the bigger ones, with its own tub and a chamber pot in the corner, so there’s no reason that Jaskier should have to leave at all. He looks over to his bard, who looks deflated and smaller without his usual jovial mood and bright smile, and Geralt feels his chest tighten. “Jaskier, I--” he starts to say, but the bard cuts him off. 

“No, you’re right, darling. As much as I don’t wish to be a maiden locked in an ivory tower, needs must and all that. Just make quick of your contract so we can be out of this place tomorrow and on our way to… Kaedwen?” His voice is soft, like the walls themselves have ears, and Geralt can feel the anger starting to burn in his veins. 

“Yes,” is all he says as he starts to gather his pack, checking over his potions and making sure he has the things he needs to handle the contract as quickly as possible. Mated griffins are difficult, but there are more pressing concerns. He turns and hands Jaskier a small dagger, the spare silver one he keeps in his pack. “Keep this with you. When we get to Kaer Morhen, we’ll get you one of your own, and I’ll teach you how to use it properly.” 

Jaskier takes the dagger wordlessly, sliding it under the pillow as he sits on the bed. “Lock the door behind you?” he asks after a moment, turning too-wide blue eyes onto Geralt. 

He nods and stalks out of the room, doing just that and slipping the key into his pocket as he heads down the stairs. Now, he just needs to focus on the hunt so he can get back to Jaskier.

-*-

Geralt is well-versed in the cruelty of humans. He knows it from the scars he carries made by the rocks and things they throw when he walks down the street, feels the weight of it in the whispers and sneers he catches in crowded taverns. He knows that the hearts of men are greedy, shriveled things for coin and flesh and glory alike. 

He’s not sure why it still surprises him sometimes. 

The hunt takes longer than expected, with the Witcher’s mind distracted by thoughts of the bard locked away in the room they’re sharing. He gets a new gouge in his side for his trouble, but he dispatches the pair and blows up the nest of eggs he finds, making quick work of gathering the evidence of his kill. Poison still burns through his veins, but he can’t stop to let it burn itself out. He has to make it back to Jaskier. 

The moon is high in the sky when he steps back into the inn, ignoring the gasps of horror his visage incites. He knows what he looks like, with his eyes still black as pitch and bloodied trophies hanging at his side, but he doesn’t care. His singular focus is on the staircase and when he gets close, it hits him.

The scent of blood. A frantic heartbeat. The tang of bitter salt in the air. Whimpers of pain that have his feet rushing forward and he drops the bag at the bottom of the stairs as he takes them, two or three at a time. 

There is a man posted outside their room, brawny and broad, but Geralt isn’t bothered. He grabs the man by his face and bodily throws him down the stairs without a moment’s hesitation. He doesn’t look to see if he’s coming back up, before he’s kicking in the door. 

It takes a moment for his brain to process what he’s seeing. Time seems to slow down as he notices that Jaskier is tied to the bed on his belly, stripped naked and his face mashed into the pillow. The dagger is kicked onto the floor and the whimpers are louder now, and the scent of sex in the room thick with the curdled milk smell of Jaskier’s fear, tinged with blood and semen. His skin is a map of bruises and bite marks and scratches, marks of possession and ownership that don’t belong on his pale flesh. Octavius is behind him, the thrust of his cock sharp and brutal as he purrs above Jaskier, “That’s right, songbird, I have you now, you’ve tempted me too long with your pretty voice and your body, but you’re mine now, aren’t you?” So lost in his rambling, he hasn’t seemed to catch the fact that Geralt is standing in the room. 

A particularly hard thrust has Jaskier shifting up the bed, choking on a moan of pain, and it kickstarts Geralt’s brain into making the world around him speed up again. Before he can think on it, he’s rushing forward and unsheathing his sword, swinging with all of his might. 

Octavius’ head falls to the ground with a satisfying thump, face forever locked into a look of surprise. Geralt never harms humans as a rule, but he can’t deny that this one exception is utterly gratifying. 

The bed is a mess of blood and semen, both from the spray and from the damage that has been dealt to his bard before he got here. Jaskier’s muscles bunch up and he tries to curl in on himself, but the bonds at his wrists prevent too much movement. Geralt swallows the growl that bubbles in his chest as he cuts the bonds with his sword. “Jaskier?” he murmurs as soft as he can, the same way he speaks to Roach after a fight gets too close to her. 

“No, no, please, no more, please, don’t touch me,” Jaskier begs as his body folds in on itself. He’s shaking, glazed unseeing eyes glancing up to meet Geralt’s own. His clothes lay in tatters around the bed and he tries to reach out for the scraps of fabric. He whimpers as he shifts, and Geralt wishes he had taken more time in killing the monster wearing a man’s face. 

“Jaskier, it’s me, it’s Geralt,” he tries again, crouching low so that their faces are merely inches apart. “I’m going to get you out of here. I have to touch you to lift you, and then I’m going to carry you. All right?” 

Jaskier’s eyes clear a bit and his face crumples, as he lets out a sound that Geralt has never heard him make before. The curdled-milk smell spikes, lanced through with the lemony-sour scent of shame that makes Geralt want to gag. “Geralt? Please, no, make it stop, I tried to make it stop but he--” 

“Hush, Jaskier. I know. I know you did,” Geralt tries, his words faltering. What can he even say? I’m sorry that I failed to be back to keep you from being raped by the man who has been dogging your every thought for the last several months? The words get stuck in the back of his throat and he can’t force them out, no matter how hard he tries. “I’m going to touch you, okay?” 

Jaskier whimpers and curls up even harder, but Geralt doesn’t worry. He can carry Jaskier, bear his weight even as the sounds he’s making resonate deep inside his chest. As gingerly as he can manage, he scoops Jaskier off the ruined battlefield of the bed and holds him as close as he can with Jaskier trying to both burrow into him and also try to squirm away. He’s moaning and babbling, his nails raking across the gore that’s still stuck to Geralt’s armor. 

Focus. Count to ten. Deep breaths.

Geralt keeps his bard held tight as he stalks down the hall to the door furthest from theirs and he kicks it open with a snarl. It’s blessedly empty, and he deposits Jaskier on the clean linens of the bed and pulls them over him. His mind is a swirling mess of anger and shame, burning through his veins like one of his potions, but he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Focus. He has to get their things, he needs to clean Jaskier up, he has to figure out how this happened, he--

“Geralt? Are you leaving? No, please don’t leave, please don’t leave me!” Jaskier cries out, scrabbling off to bed and falling into a tangle of bedding on the floor. He lets out another inhuman wail and he’s crawling across the floorboards like he’s possessed. “He’ll come back, he’ll find me, please don’t leave me alone.” The heavy scent of salt floods the air and Geralt is wrapping him up in his arms again. Jaskier’s sobbing now, clinging tight and pushing his face into Geralt’s neck like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He has no words to soothe, nothing he could say will make this better for Jaskier, or himself. Words don’t come easily on a good day, and what good is a Witcher for comfort? So, he runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair and makes soft, low rumbling noises in his chest in lieu of the empty platitudes he could offer. 

He’s not sure how long he’s on the floor, holding Jaskier before his bard cries himself to sleep, sagging against him like a puppet with cut strings. Still cradling the other man, he gently sets him down in the bed and pulls the covers up around his still-naked body. He can’t let Jaskier stay like this, covered in blood and worse, but he figures the other man has earned some rest. “I’ll be back, I promise,” Geralt says softly, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Jaskier’s face, swollen and bruised from crying and the brutality he’s suffered. 

He slips out and shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, moving on light feet down to the room they had just vacated to gather their things. Packs, his swords, Jaskier’s lute, all of it is thrown onto his back as he ignores the ruined mess of sheets on the bed and the blood spray on the wall and floor. He has half a mind to set it on fire, burn away the evidence in the only way he can. 

“Master Witcher, there was a commotion--oh!” 

Geralt whips around, hand on his sword hilt, when he sees one of the inn’s chambermaids in the doorway. She’s as white as a sheet and he can see the fine tremble in her limbs as she takes in the state of the room. “We’re moving rooms. Is the innkeep here?” he says flatly, turning her attention back to him. She nods, and he lets out a grunt. “I’m going to need water for a bath in the room down the hall. But you will wait until I’m there to bring it, understand?” Again, she nods, and he moves past her, shuffling down the hall as carefully as he can to set their things down. 

He has other business to attend to before he can take care of Jaskier further. 

He stalks down the stairs and pays little attention to the small crowd in the tavern, even as a hush falls over them. His potions have worn off by now, but the humans can probably feel the anger rising off of him like heat as he pushes through towards the bar. The innkeep is in the midst of serving another patron when Geralt’s hand shoots out, quick as a snake’s strike, to grab him around the neck and slam him into the bar. 

Vaguely, he hears swords drawn and the shuffle of feet, but he doesn’t care. Let them swing at him, he could use the opportunity to burn off the rage that’s boiling under his skin. “Who let him in?” he asks through gritted teeth. 

The innkeeper sputters nonsense at him and Geralt flexes his hand, tightening his grip. He can feel the flesh beneath his hand starting to give, even though the leather of his glove. “Who. Let. Him. In?” he growls louder, baring his teeth in a snarl. His jaw aches to bite, to rip and tear and make this man who allowed Jaskier to be hurt to bleed out right here on his bartop. 

“I...he… said he knew the bard...sent him...sharing a room,” the man chokes out, but Geralt’s grip doesn’t relent. Not yet. “Seemed legit-imate...nobles…” He’s raking his nails down the leather of Geralt’s bracer and he kicks out, but Geralt takes it with barely a grunt. “I didn’t think--”

“No, you didn’t.” Geralt leans close, eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. “Not for the drug in the ale, or letting a strange man into someone else’s room. That door was locked. He had to have gotten the key from somewhere.” He squeezes again, and the innkeeper’s skin begins to flush a darker red. “How much did he pay you?” 

“F-five hun-dred… crowns…” 

So that’s what another man’s life was worth. Five hundred crowns to look the other way while Jaskier was being raped and abused upstairs. Part of him wanted to keep squeezing, to feel the life drain out of him underneath his hands. For a beat, he thought about shrugging on the Butcher mantle that so many still attributed to him behind their hands and in their whispers. But then he thought of Jaskier and his songs, how hard he’s worked to improve Geralt’s reputation and the reputation of his brothers through him. 

That’s the only reason he lets go. The innkeeper gulps in air and flops around the bartop like a fish, knocking over tankards and plates as he falls to the floor. “I should kill you, but I won’t. Not now, anyway. I’ll let the bard decide what to do with you in the morning.” He turns around and meets the eyes of the men who had started to swarm the bar, straightening his back and clenching his fists, daring one of them to make the first move. 

None of them do, of course. They step aside as he stalks back to the staircase, remembering to grab the bag of griffin heads he had left before. He’s a bit surprised no one made off with them to fetch the reward, but it just means they can leave this fucking place sooner in the morning. 

The chambermaid is waiting at the end of the hall, still pale but looking like she’d had enough time to get her wits about her. Good. “Bring the water. And some stew,” he barks out and he doesn’t wait to see if she follows his orders before he slips back inside the room where Jaskier is. He flicks a small Igni to light the candle by the bed, casting the room in a warm, soft glow that he hopes will be soothing. The violence downstairs he could handle, but seeing Jaskier whimpering in his sleep, shifting restlessly beneath the linens, he feels adrift. “Jaskier?” he murmurs, pitching his voice as low as he can. “Jaskier?” 

A hand shoots out and catches him across the cheek, not enough to hurt but it makes him stumble back a bit. Jaskier lets out a pained sound and screams, “No! Don’t touch me again! Please, please no more.” He’s begging, more tears pouring down his cheeks as he flails against the covers. His heartbeat is hummingbird quick, and for a moment, Geralt’s afraid it will pound right out of his chest. Another whine and Geralt grabs his wrists, trying to steady him. 

“Jaskier, it’s me. It’s Geralt. It’s over now, it’s over,” he repeats, his stomach twisting when Jaskier tries to pull his wrists from his grip. He should let go, he’s sure, but he doesn’t want to risk Jaskier hurting himself further. “You’re safe, it’s over, I’ve got you, he’s dead.” 

He’s not sure what makes Jaskier’s head snap towards him, their eyes meeting as Jaskier takes deep, heaving breaths. “He’s dead?” he whispers. His voice is hoarse from screaming and the sobs that wracked his body, and it grates in Geralt’s ears. After a blink or two, he looks around and takes in the blood on his skin, his nakedness, and Geralt’s solid grip on him. “Did you..." he gasps an abortive sound. “You promise?” 

Jaskier sounds so small, nothing like the bright, bigger than life presence he usually is. Geralt would gladly kill Octavius again for that alone. “I do. They’re going to bring some water for a bath, and I have salve in my pack. Do you...do you want me to help?” he asks awkwardly. 

Jaskier nods so hard his teeth clack together and he climbs into Geralt’s lap for the second time that night, folding himself even smaller in Geralt’s arms. “I can’t. I don’t want to… how can you want to touch me?” he sobs out, burying his face in his hands. “I should’ve fought harder, should’ve done more. Please don’t be angry with me.” 

“I’m not.” That’s all he can manage, as the rage still bubbling in his veins threatens to wash over him. He needs to focus. This is just another monster that they’ll slay together, even though he suspects it will take much longer than a pack of drowners or a wyvern. “You did nothing wrong, Jaskier.” _You’re the victim. You’re the one who got hurt. If anyone did anything wrong, it’s me for leaving you by yourself._ It would be easy to drown in his own self-loathing, walk that spiral to somewhere dark and vast, but he can’t. Not when he’s trying to keep Jaskier’s own head above the water. 

There’s a knock on the door and Geralt lets out a grunt, keeping Jaskier folded tightly in his arms as it opens. Four women come trotting in, keeping their eyes on the floor as they pour buckets of water into the tub. No one speaks, and as quickly as they came in, they’re gone. “Are you up for a bath?” 

“No, but I think I need one,” Jaskier replies, getting up onto shaky feet. His knees wobble and Geralt catches him before he can tip over. Normally there would be a quip there, one of them cracking a joke about needing help, but there’s only silence, heavy and thick as they maneuver over to the tub. It’s a jarring role-reversal, usually it’s Jaskier dragging Geralt into a bath after a bad hunt, the bard cooing over his wounds and tending to them with soft words and softer hands. Geralt’s not soft, but he tries really damn hard as he starts to unwind the sheet from around Jaskier’s body. 

It’s crusted to his skin, the disgusting mix of body fluids making it stick and Jaskier whimpers as Geralt does his best to pull it away as gently as he can. He looks away when Jaskier’s naked body is revealed, giving his bard back some of his dignity and only turning around when he hears the slosh of water and Jaskier hissing through his teeth. “Too cold?” he asks, getting up to grab the soap Jaskier keeps in his pack, the one spicy-sweet one with turmeric and clove for moments just like this. 

Jaskier’s hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist. “Don’t leave, please don’t leave?” he whispers, shaking and biting his lip.

“I’m not. Just getting the soap, Jaskier,” he assures the bard, watching his friend let out a shaky breath before trying to relax back into the water. “You didn’t answer me. Is the water too cold?” He drops back down by the tub and strips off his armor and gloves, rolling his sleeves up before he grabs the soap to work it into a lather. 

“No. Just hurts,” Jaskier mutters into his knees. He rests his head against them and stares sightlessly out into the room. 

Geralt hums instead of speaking and starts to wash Jaskier as gently as he can. He pulls from all the times the bard has done the same for him, though he can’t quite manage the soft words and snippets of melody that tend to accompany the bard’s every waking moment. There’s none of that now, and Geralt feels it like a weight in his chest. The only sounds are the sloshing of water from the tub and Jaskier’s occasional hitch of breath when Geralt touches one of his sorer spots. Even in the candle light, he can make out the mess of bruises and bite marks, rope burns around his wrists and jagged edges of his nails from where he must have clawed at the sheets. He can’t wash those away, but at least Jaskier’s skin is clear of the streaks of semen and clotted blood he found. “Was it just him?” he asks finally, not sure he wants to hear the answer.

“He was enough,” is all Jaskier says. 

He motions for Jaskier to dunk under the water and he washes his hair, pulling his fingers through mats and tangles. When he tips Jaskier’s head back to rinse, he can see more tear tracks on his face and a bead of blood smeared across his lip from where he must have bitten it. “Jaskier?” 

“You know...I’ve always wanted you to do this. To be so tender, so intimate. But now it’s ruined because--” he choked on a sob and buried his face in his knees again. His entire body shakes with the force of his sobs and Geralt hates it, hates that he can’t fix this with a silver sword and potions. “What you must think of me now. Guess I deserve it, behaving as I do--”

“No,” Geralt growls out, gentling his voice when he sees Jaskier flinch. Fuck. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t deserve this.” He reaches out and he brushes his fingertips along Jaskier’s spine, up towards the bite mark on his neck that Geralt wants to blot out. “And I think nothing of you that I didn’t think before. You’re annoying and loud and brash… but also a force of nature and… beautiful.” There, he said it. The word tripped off his tongue before he could stop it. 

Jaskier turns watery blue eyes onto him, wide and red-rimmed. “Thank you for saying it. Can I go to sleep now?” 

Geralt nods, helping him out of the tub and taking the liberty to dry him off. “First, I think you’re going to need some salve on these bruises. And…” he trails off, gesturing between Jaskier’s legs. He thinks about offering to help, but the words die on his tongue when he sees Jaskier start to shake again. “I won’t touch you, I promise.” 

“I just… I know it would be better if you did, but I can’t…I don’t want--” Jaskier tries to say, but he bites down on his lip and lets out a wail from deep in his throat. That same, gag-inducing curdled milk smell spills into the air and Geralt hates that he knows what Jaskier’s fear smells like.

He shushes Jaskier, not wanting him to work himself up again. “It’s okay. How about you let me put it on the ones you can’t reach, and you can do the rest? Just like when you patch me up after a hunt, all right?” He motions towards the bed, but Jaskier shakes his head and points to the chair. Geralt can’t bring himself to deny him. 

The silence between them is unnerving, and Geralt feels just as on edge as Jaskier is. He hates it, hates how much he’s missing Jaskier’s constant noise and movement, loud in voice and in life. But not right now, and Geralt wants to rip the world to shreds for it. Focus, he tells himself. He focuses on keeping his touch gentle as he rubs salve into the bruises on Jaskier’s back, slathering it thick on the vicious bite mark on his shoulder. He hopes none of them scar, because Jaskier’s body doesn’t need to carry the same marks his mind will. “How’s that?” he asks after a moment, handing Jaskier the tin. 

“I don’t want a healer here, but can you… check the damage?” Jaskier asks, swallowing hard around a choked-off noise. 

Geralt’s no medic, and he should argue that if the damage is bad enough they’ll need a healer, but he doesn’t. Not when Jaskier is looking up at him with swollen, empty eyes and holding out the tin again with a shaky hand. “All right.” He waits for Jaskier to crawl into the bed, wincing when he sees that Jaskier has chosen almost the same position that Geralt had found him in. It was the easiest, surely, but that doesn’t stop his stomach from roiling a bit. 

“Just get it over with, please,” Jaskier whimpers, hiding his face in the pillow. 

Taking a deep breath, Geralt pulls Jaskier’s cheeks apart to inspect him. His rim is swollen and red, as is the skin around it. Jaskier flinches away when he shifts, like he’s afraid that Geralt is going to finish what Octavius started. “Shh, shhh, I know, I know,” he tries to soothe, pitching his voice low. “There’s no blood, just red and swollen. I don’t know about inside.” 

“Don’t. Please don’t. It hurts,” Jaskier pleads with him, squirming to get away. He chokes out a cry and Geralt has to hold his hips in his hands, which makes Jaskiser start to shake all over again. 

“I don’t want you to get infected, Jaskier. You can put the salve on yourself, here. I won’t touch you.” _No one will ever touch you like this again, not if I can help it._ He swallows back a growl and lets go, moving away so that Jaskier can collapse on the bed. “I’ll turn away, all right?” He gets to his feet and turns his body away, but he catches the tiny pained sound Jaskier lets out when he moves, hears the way the linens shift and the soft squelch of fingers dipping into the salve. “It’ll help,” is all he can offer, though his hands itch to do more. 

Another pained sound echoes in the air, but Geralt keeps his word and keeps his back turned. He busies himself with retrieving Jaskier’s favorite nightshirt and some smallclothes, as well as some soft linen pants that he finds in the bottom of his pack. “Here,” he says, keeping his eyes averted as Jaskier dresses. Or tries to, considering the hiss of breath and the soft sounds he hears behind him.

“Geralt… can you help me?” Jaskier asks, sounding so broken that it makes Geralt feel like he’s swallowing glass. He turns and methodically helps Jaskier get dressed, before helping him into the bed. “Thank you,” he hears over his shoulder. 

“No need,” he grunts, sinking to his knees on the floor next to the bed. He should sleep, tired after the hunt and the night’s events, but his nerves are too keyed up. Logically he knows that he dispatched the threat, but he can’t help but be on high alert, ready to defend Jaskier if he needs to. He can meditate, and he can sleep when they get away from this place and the weight it brings the longer they stay here. “Go to sleep, Jaskier. I’ll be right here.” 

Jaskier nods, reaching out from underneath the covers and motioning towards Geralt’s hand. “Please?” he asks in the same, small voice that makes Geralt’s heart feel like it’s going to break into a million pieces. 

Wordlessly, he reaches up and clasps his bard’s hand as tight as he can without hurting him. Jaskier sighs and curls in on himself underneath the sheets. He’s trembling, but Geralt can feel it slow when he rubs his thumb across Jaskier’s skin to soothe. It works, and soon Jaskier is asleep again. Only then does Geralt let himself drift off into the light floaty warmth of meditation, ignoring the way his arm cramps from the position it’s in. He’d stay like this all night, if that’s what Jaskier needs. 

It’ll be enough. It has to be.

-*-

The moon is high in the sky when Geralt is shaken out of his meditation by the sound of whimpering and half-formed words of “no, no, please, no.” He glances at the bed, where Jaskier’s thrashing against the covers, limbs shifting as he fights off whatever demon has crawled into his nightmare. The air is thick with the scent of stale sweat and sour fear, and Geralt is on his feet in a flash. 

“Jaskier?” he tries, but his bard is still locked in the throes of his nightmare and doesn’t seem to hear him. The whimpers give way to wailing and moaning, and he tries again, louder this time, “Jaskier!” 

Jaskier’s eyes pop open, wide and unseeing, and he’s breathing so hard that even under the blankets, Geralt can see his chest rising and falling much too quickly. “Geralt? Is that you?” he whispers breathily, like he can’t keep the air in his lungs long enough to calm down. 

“Yes, Jaskier. It’s me. Can I touch you?” he asks as softly as he can, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. At Jaskier’s nod, he reaches up and runs his hand through sweat-drenched hair. “I’m right here. Nightmare?” He knows the answer with a certainty that makes his gut sink like a stone. He had hoped Jaskier would have been too tired to dream, but Destiny is not so kind to Witchers or their bards. 

A shaky nod is his reply as Jaskier tries to curl up again. 

“Are you in pain? Do you need more salve?” This he can focus on, healing the physical is much easier than anything else. He keeps stroking Jaskier’s hair, grateful that the touch is welcome. He’s not sure he could take it if Jaskier shied away from his touch. 

Jaskier shakes his head, biting his lip before he looks up at Geralt. “Just keep seeing his face, I feel his hands on my body…” he says, gagging around the words like a bad taste in his mouth. Which, it probably is. “Will you lay down with me? I know it’s a lot to ask, and you probably don’t wait to touch me after--”

“I will,” he grunts, cutting off Jaskier’s spiral. He doesn’t miss the way his bard’s body sags in relief, or the way that the curdled-milk smell is starting to give way to something softer, almost sweet. It’s something he’s smelled lingering on Jaskier before, but now is not the time to put too much thought into that. “Anything you need.” He’s stiff as he lays down next to Jaskier, unsure of where to put his body or his hands, where they’d be welcome. He doesn’t know how to be gentle, or soft, or comforting, and he feels like if he tries, he’ll break this fragile moment between them in two. 

Jaskier, completely clueless to Geralt’s internal struggle, just rolls over and crawls up against him, like he can meld their bodies together if he tries hard enough. The fear-scent is almost completely gone now and his eyes are closed, but even with the bruises beneath them and the marks left on his face, he looks almost restful. “Thank you,” he breathes softly, body going lax as he falls back asleep.

“I’ll keep you safe, Jaskier. I promise.” 

-*-

There are no more nightmares that night, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone for good. The next month is brutal on them both. Jaskier is a shadow of his former self, and Geralt finds that he misses the constant noise and too-bright personality of his bard. He never thought he’d admit to himself how used to snippets of melody and Jaskier’s incessant questions about lyrics and stanzas, but here he is. He’d give almost anything to have it back. 

Jaskier is still too pale and the skin beneath his eyes is constantly bruised from lack of sleep, and he walks too close to Geralt any time they enter a village. He still performs when they need coin, but he shies away from his bawdier tunes and he flinches bodily any time a hand gets too close to his person. On one memorable occasion, he actually dropped his lute and fled when an overzealous patron got a good handful of his ass. After picking up the lute and breaking the man’s fingers, Geralt found him shaking in a linen closet. 

He takes Jaskier on hunts that he shouldn’t, because neither of them can forget what happened the last time he didn’t. It’s dangerous, driving him to distraction, but he can’t make himself stop _just in case_. It’s only a matter of time before one or both of them gets hurt. 

It comes to a head in Yspaden, where Geralt takes one last contract before they make their way up into the mountains to Kaer Morhen. He intends to keep his promise to Jaskier, and it feels more important than ever to take him somewhere safe so maybe he can finally start to heal. Maybe it’s Jaskier’s presence, maybe it’s thinking about all of the supplies they need to get before they head up, he can’t be sure. Whatever it is, Geralt is distracted enough fighting the forktail that he’s been hired to kill that he gets a bite taken out of his side, and one of his knees is nearly broken by the devastating swipe of the creature’s tail just before he stabs it between its ribs. “Fuck!” he screams out, falling onto his good knee and trying to keep his vision from swimming. Pain shoots through him and he clutches the bleeding wound at his side. 

“Geralt?” he hears Jaskier call in the distance. 

“Stay back, Jaskier,” he growls out, using his sword as a crutch to get back on his feet. He sways a bit, taking a deep, steadying breath before he pulls his trophy knife from his belt. He should harvest the organs, take some of the blood, but everything hurts and he needs to get back to Jaskier. It takes him far longer than it should to cut the head off, dragging it behind him as he limps back to where he left Roach and Jaskier. 

“Geralt! You’re hurt!” Jaskier jumps down from the saddle and grabs the bag from him. “What happened? You’re bleeding! Do you need some Swallow? What can I get you?” he fusses, flitting around Geralt like a mother hen. 

Geralt grunts at first, but Jaskier doesn’t relent. “I’m fine, Jaskier. We can deal with it back at the inn,” he grits out, grinding his teeth against the pain as he forces himself into the saddle. The bleeding is sluggish now, but the pain in his knee feels like fire ripping through the muscles of his leg. “Come on, up.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “No. I can walk. Let’s get you back to the inn.” He takes Roach’s reins and starts to lead her down the path back to the village, bottom lip jutted out and his face stony. They walk in silence, the only sound between them the clip-clop of Roach’s hooves and Geralt’s labored breathing. It feels like it takes a century to make it back and Jaskier helps Geralt down so that he doesn’t jostle his knee any more than he has to. Wrapping Geralt’s arm around his shoulders, Jaskier does his best to take his weight. “I’ve got you, my friend.”

They hobble into the inn together and Jaskier calls out, “Could I trouble you for some hot water and a basin? Thank you.” It doesn’t sound like a request, and the barmaid behind the counter snaps her fingers at one of the nearby serving girls. There are no stairs, thankfully, and they manage to get down the hall into the room they’d secured before the hunt, a habit they’d gotten into since they left Lower Posada. 

Jaskier helps Geralt into the single chair in the room, and wordlessly starts helping him strip out of his armor. He’s still stone-faced and grim, but Geralt can smell something hot on Jaskier’s skin, like heat rising off a stone. How long until it boils over? 

He gets his answer eventually, after the serving girl has dropped off the requested water and Jaskier starts tending to his wounds. For a beat, Geralt can pretend things are normal, that this was just a usual wound from a usual hunt. If he tries hard enough, he can even pretend he’s hearing Jaskier humming and mumbling about his carelessness. Anything would be better than the loaded silence and that hot smell that’s steadily rising in the air around them. His bite is packed and sewn, and Jaskier breaks off two of the table legs from the nightstand to use as a makeshift splint. Geralt wants to argue, they both know it’ll be mostly healed by morning, but he’s cowed by the manic glint in Jaskier’s eyes as he wraps his leg still. 

“Jaskier?” 

Jaskier looks up, blue eyes burning like fire too hot at the core and that’s when the dam breaks. “Goddamn it, Geralt!” he screams, getting to his feet and kicking the broken nightstand across the room. He picks up the basin and throws it against the wall, shattering it in a spray of ceramic. His face is bright red and his teeth are bared in a snarl as he kicks the wooden tub in the corner, hard enough to make it scrape across the floor. 

“Jaskier, what--” he tries, but he’s cut off by another bellow of rage as Jaskier’s fingers rip through the flimsy excuse of a privacy screen the room had to offer. 

“This is all my fault! If you didn’t have to babysit me, bring me on your hunts like some sort of _child_ , this wouldn’t have happened!” he rages on, eyes still fever-bright when he turns them on Geralt. “You should have just left me there, in Posada. Dumped me like the dead weight I am. I can’t stand performing for people who look at me like _he_ did. I turn into a gibbering mess when you leave me alone for too long. You cut off his fucking head but he still haunts my dreams like a spectre I can’t exorcise, and now you got hurt because you were too worried about me!” 

“And the cart. And supplies,” Geralt cuts in dumbly.

“What?”

Geralt clears his throat. “I was also thinking about supplies we needed. And finding a cart, since we stopped early this year,” he repeats, not sure why he’s telling Jaskier this. He’s not afraid of Jaskier’s rage, but it’s unfounded. Even if it was Jaskier’s fault he got injured, he’d never blame his bard for it. “So, it’s not really your fault. I should have been paying more attention.”

Jaskier stares at him for a long moment, then deflates. That hot smell is still rising off his skin in waves, but at least he’s not destroying the room anymore. Geralt wonders how it’s taken this long for his anger and pain to spill out like this, if he’s honest. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Maybe, maybe not. But Jaskier, it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. And this is another reason I want to take you to Kaer Morhen with me, so you’ll be safe.” He makes to get up, but Jaskier crosses the room in a flash to shove him back down by the shoulders. “If anyone failed in this, it was me. I didn’t keep you safe when I should have.” He feels the shame he’s been keeping in a neat little box starting to bubble over. He’s the reason Jaskier got hurt, why he can’t find peace anymore. He’s--

A warm, gentle hand cradles his jaw and turns his face towards Jaskier, who’s anger has softened into something warm and familiar. “We’re a right mess, the pair of us, aren’t we?” he whispers with a watery chuckle. “I don’t blame you, you know. You didn’t know he was going to be there, or what was going to happen.”

“I should have been there. And I should have smelled him, sensed him, something.”

Jaskier shakes his head and he crawls into Geralt’s lap, pushing his nose up under Geralt’s chin and going boneless. Even situated as he is, with his leg splinted, he can still hold Jaskier’s weight easily. “No,” he says. The warm, sweet smell of Jaskier’s skin soothes him and Geralt feels the dark curl of shame start to abate in his chest. “I think hiding away for the winter will be good for the both of us, don’t you?” 

“I do.” He closes his eyes and lets that sweet smell wash over him, tasting it on the back of his tongue and wanting to gulp it down so it sits in his chest always. Geralt doesn’t want to put a name on it, doesn’t want to break the spell weaving over the moment they’re sharing.

The silence stretches between them, but it’s softer, less suffocating than it has been. Geralt could almost slip into meditation like this, lulled by the closeness and the smell of Jaskier’s skin. At least, until he hears _it._

Humming. Jaskier is humming. It’s a soft tune, nothing like the loud melodies and snippets of song he’d boasted before, but it’s something. Like sighting the first lark of spring warbling in a tree as the snows begin to melt.

Geralt’s heart does a flip in his chest and he doesn’t move, just in case he draws attention to it and it stops. Instead, he lets himself drift to the sound of it thrumming through his bones, accompanied by the slightest tap-tap of Jaskier’s fingers against his thigh. An answering rumble starts in his chest and Jaskier stutters, for just a moment, before the wordless tune picks up again. The two of them sit like that, the soft music moving back and forth between them, and Geralt begins to think that maybe they’ll be all right eventually. 

-*-

Some days it gets better, some days it gets worse. After the explosion in Yspaden, Jaskier is a bit more vocal about when things are hard, and in return, Geralt tries to combat the guilt that still tries to wrap its tendrils around his heart when Jaskier has a bad day. They sleep pressed tight together every night, Geralt’s presence chasing the nightmares away for the most part. Some nights Jaskier still wakes up gasping like he’s drowning, but when his eyes clear and he comes back to himself, he always smiles tiredly at Geralt and snuggles back down. 

Geralt would bite through his own tongue before he admitted it out loud, but that look alone is enough to make his insides squirm with pleasure and he finds it just as easy to fall back asleep.

Winter is creeping up on them slowly, just like the frost that’s starting to appear on the ground as they begin their trek up into the mountains. Geralt warns Jaskier that he’ll need to keep on his toes and pay attention to all of his instructions, and thankfully Jaskier actually listens. He occupies his time by playing his lute and singing softly, playing a little louder each time he picks up his instrument. Geralt has made more of an effort to comment, to answer when Jaskier asks him a question or his opinion on a snippet he’s working on. It… works. The further they get away from the villages, the less Jaskier clings, too, like he’s finally able to breathe now that they’re far away from people.

Geralt understands that feeling far too well.

The sky is gray and heavy when they finally reach the keep, and Geralt can smell the snowfall that’s hanging in the air. Just in time, it seems. 

Jaskier, of course, is entranced by the crumbling ruins and calls out excitedly, “Geralt, you brute, this is amazing! How could you withhold such details from me? Your home is magnificent!” When Geralt turns to look, Jaskier’s eyes are wide and his face is flushed from more than the cold, and it’s so utterly breathtaking that he has to stop a moment. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go in!” 

That kicks Geralt into gear and he leads the mule and the cart in through the gates, trusting Roach to follow. She knows the way, even with Jaskier still talking a mile a minute from where he’s perched on her back. It’s good, though. Anything is better than the dreadful silence that had been dogging them for what seemed like ages. 

It seems like they’re the first to arrive, since only Vesemir is standing in the courtyard to greet them. His keen eyes look past Geralt to the bard who is working on unpacking Roach while he chats to her about how excited he is. “A guest?” is all he says, raising an eyebrow. 

“It’s complicated, and not really my story to tell. I should have asked, but there wasn’t time,” Geralt replies, swallowing down the rest of his excuse. _I don’t know if I would have come if you said no._ “Jaskier, come here.” 

His bard bounds over and doesn’t look or smell the least bit afraid of Vesemir. It speaks volumes that he’s more afraid of humans than Witchers. “You must be Vesemir! Oh, it’s an honor to meet you sir. I would say that Geralt told me all about you, but that would be a lie. Thank you for allowing me to come and stay the winter in your glorious keep!” Jaskier thrusts out his hand and Vesemir takes it, though he looks a bit confused by the bard’s enthusiasm. “And I am sure that you’ll have many stories to share about your time as a Witcher!” 

Vesemir opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it just as quickly, and Geralt breaths out a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to watch Jaskier deflate and curl in on himself again, not when he’s the liveliest Geralt has seen since Posada. 

“We’ll see. Come on inside before you catch your death. I assume he’s staying with you, Geralt?” 

“Yes. If that’s alright with you, Jaskier?” he asks, though he’s sure he already knows the answer. 

“Hmm? Oh yes, please,” Jaskier replies loudly, then pitches his voice lower to where he thinks only Geralt can hear. “I don’t know if I’m quite ready to sleep alone, even in this place. Are _you_ sure?” 

Geralt nods and the bright, happy smile returns to Jaskier’s face as he catches up with Vesemir. The old Witcher looks vexed by the bard’s sudden onslaught of questions and observations, Geralt following sedately behind, leading Roach and the mule to the stable. Jaskier follows his mentor into the keep proper and Geralt takes a moment to himself as he gets the two of them settled. Was bringing Jaskier here a good idea? So far, Vesemir was tolerating him, and he knew Jaskier would get along well with Eskel, but Lambert was always a wild card. Maybe he could find a way to tell them before his brother opened his mouth and said something that would cause Jaskier to spiral.

That thought makes his stomach squirm uncomfortably. Jaskier had come so far in recent days and the keep is supposed to be a safe place, where Jaskier could heal. 

He takes a deep breath and pats Roach’s side before he heads into the main hall. He doesn’t want to borrow trouble, doesn’t want to get himself or Jaskier worked up over something that could be nothing at all. 

Geralt walks in and he can hear Jaskier chatting away still, which makes him smile just the faintest bit. “And then, you wouldn’t believe what happened when we were in Maribor. People there are just outrageous when it comes to--oh, Geralt! There you are! I was just telling Vesemir about that contract in Maribor.” 

“So I heard. I’m sure there will be plenty of time to tell Vesemir all about our adventures on the path this year. Come on, let’s get you settled in,” Geralt says, splaying his hand across Jaskier’s back as he steers him towards the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vesemir visibly fold his arms and shake his head, but his face looks fond. 

They walk up the stairs, and Geralt watches Jaskier look around in awe. “Geralt, this place is amazing. I know… I know it’s probably hard to hear me say that, because of what happened here, but I just--”

“Jaskier, you don’t have to apologize. My relationship with this place is complicated, but it’s home. Don’t worry yourself about the rest, alright?” Geralt says simply as he opens the door to his room. There’s a fire already crackling in the hearth and clean furs have been piled on his bed in the corner, which makes Geralt smile. Vesemir would never admit how much care he takes to get their rooms ready for when his wolves return home for the winter, but it warms Geralt from inside just the same. The air is still a little musty, but nothing a little airing out won’t fix. He turns, watching Jaskier’s reaction to the one place that Geralt can truly call his home. “What do you think?” 

Jaskier walks the length of the large room, letting his fingers trail over the knickknacks and books that Geralt has collected over the years with a look of awe on his face. “It’s one thing to know I’m coming to your winter den, it’s another thing entirely to see it in person. I know you travel light on the path with good reason, but seeing all of your things here… it just makes me happy, is all.” He turns a beaming smile on Geralt and sets his things down by the writing desk in the corner, clearly claiming it for the season.

That warms Geralt too, if he’s honest. 

“Well, this is your den for the winter too, you know. You’re safe here.” _I will always keep you safe, I promise._

“I know, Geralt.” Jaskier sits down in front of the fire and pats the space next to him. Geralt sets his swords down and strips off his armor as he walks, earning himself an exasperated smile and a shake of the head from Jaskier. He sinks down next to him and Jaskier immediately presses himself against his side, tucking his head up against Geralt’s shoulder. It’s comfortable, familiar, and Geralt likes it a lot. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass, you know. I’m still… not at my best, and it’s not going to be easy, but we’re getting there. I just need you to stop looking at me like I’ll crumble into dust at any moment, because otherwise I will.” 

Geralt swallows the lump in his throat with an audible click. He hadn’t realized he was. “I just don’t want you to hurt anymore,” he admits quietly.. He reaches up with the arm not holding Jaskier, gently takes the bard’s face and pulls him closer.

“Oh, darling, I know. You hold me when my nightmares are too much, you took care of me when I couldn’t care for myself, and you brought my music back. Geralt, you aren’t hurting me, you’re helping me to heal.” Jaskier shifts and takes his face between his hands. Blue eyes search his face for something, and must find it because the next thing he knows, he’s being kissed.

The kiss feels like everything and nothing all at once. It pulses in Geralt’s veins, feels like coming home all over again, like they've been building to this moment piece by piece, brick by brick until Geralt realizes what they’ve built together. Here, in the comfort of his home, he realizes that he loves Jaskier, and has for a long time. The realization makes his belly swoop and he deepens the kiss, letting out rumble in his chest when Jaskier just sighs and presses closer. 

He loses track of how long they stay like that, until Jaskier pulls away with a gasp. His face is flushed a pretty shade of pink and his lips are kiss-swollen and slick. It makes Geralt want to kiss him all over again. “That was not exactly the reception I expected, but I find I am quite pleased with the outcome.” He giggles and ducks down to kiss the corner of Geralt’s mouth again. “You could drive a man out of his mind, kissing him like that.”

“It was alright?” Geral couldn’t help but ask. 

“Of course, dear heart. I think you would have known if it wasn’t.” 

Jaskier’s right, but Geralt still scents the air, his throat closing up with the thought of what he might find. He only smells the warm, sweet smell that always lingers on Jaskier’s skin now, edged faintly with something a little spicier. It makes him think of mulled wine in front of a blazing fire, and it fills him to the brim. 

“All right,” is all he says, pulling Jaskier into his lap. He buries his nose in the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, breathing in more of that scent, letting it wash over him until he’s saturated with it. “You promise you’ll tell me if something is… wrong?” He’s not sure he has the right words, but he’s trying. 

Thankfully, Jaskier understands. He always understands. “Yes, Geralt. I will. I don’t think… can we just keep kissing for now? I know my reputation precedes me but I don’t think--” Jaskier starts to say, but Geralt shuts him up by kissing him quiet again. The tension that had started to build in Jaskier’s muscles releases and he feels his bard sag against him. 

“Hush. If I can’t say those things about myself, neither can you.” He doesn’t want to hash out the argument of before and he certainly doesn’t want to burst the bubble of warm happiness that has surrounded them. He’d happily spend the rest of the winter here with Jaskier in his lap, kissing him breathless in front of the fire. The edges of Jaskier’s scent get a little spicier, like a hint of cinnamon or cardamom, but Geralt doesn’t push. 

He would wait forever, if Jaskier asked him to. 

Eventually, Jaskier’s stomach begins to rumble and they both laugh, before Geralt pulls Jaskier to his feet. He doesn’t want to leave the room, just in case Jaskier comes to his senses and doesn’t want to kiss him again. It’s silly, he knows, but already he misses the warm line of Jaskier’s body against his, wants the sweet taste of his mouth back on his own. It must show on his face because Jaskier tangles their fingers together as they walk down the hall, blue eyes sparkling as he brings Geralt’s hand to his mouth for another kiss. His lips are like a brand against Geralt’s skin. “Later,” is all he says. He doesn’t let go as they walk into the dining room and Vesemir just raises an eyebrow when he sees their joined hands.

“Enjoy your frolicking this evening, boys, because there are chores to be done in the morning,” Vesemir grunts, and Geralt freezes up, waiting for the curdled-milk scent to curl into his nose. 

But it doesn’t. Jaskier tenses just a bit, but he calls out dramatically, “Geralt, you did not tell me this was going to be a working vacation! Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it. Please tell, Master Vesemir, what sort of chores do you have for a poor human bard to do?”

Vesemir rolls his eyes, but Geralt doesn’t miss the smallest quirk of his lips before he barks out, “Oh, don’t you worry, bardling, you’ll be kept busy. Now, go get yourself some stew and some bread, I could hear your stomach growling from down here.” 

Jaskier bounds over, grabs two bowls and serves them both hefty portions before he takes a seat at the long table. Soon, the three of them are seated and Geralt watches Jaskier and Vesemir interact as he eats. Like earlier, that same warm, settled feeling curls in his gut and he’s… happy. He’s happy to see Jaskier vibrant and talkative, leaning in to Vesemir as he listens to the old man recounting some hunt from when he was out on the path. The worries from earlier start to fade, that Jaskier and his brothers will get along just fine. 

His bard is not made of glass, no. He’s not broken, not damaged, just a bit scratched and bent, perhaps, but so is he. It’s one of the many strange ways that they fit, like puzzle pieces that have finally clicked together and Geralt finds he likes the picture they make. 

That night, after they’re both bathed, he pulls Jaskier into his bed and wraps himself around him, lazily kissing his bard in a way that sends heat bolting through him, but it never goes farther than that. The spicy smell is back, but it’s overlaid with the warmer, honey-sweet smell of Jaskier’s skin. He knows that the smell is now, makes him bury his smile in the back of Jaskier’s neck as he falls asleep, pressed skin to skin beneath the pile of furs Vesemir set up for them. 

There might be nightmares that night, there might not. Tomorrow would be filled with chores and perhaps the arrival of one of his brothers, and Geralt makes a mental note to show Jaskier around the parts of the keep that still stand. He can already imagine the songs and snippets of melody that would be floating in the air afterwards, and he can’t say he hates the idea. 

But for now, he falls asleep to the steady thump of Jaskier’s heartbeat against his chest and the sweet smell of his bard’s love filling his nose.

It’s perfect. 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you in the comments below, or at #eyesofshinigami0707 on Discord.


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